


In the Bathroom

by redscudery



Series: Around the House [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys Kissing, Frottage, M/M, Purple Shirt of Sex, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a pair of Sherlock's red pants down behind the laundry basket. He decides to try them on.</p>
<p>Of course, it's at that very moment that Sherlock has a very pressing question for him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bathroom

**Author's Note:**

> for fury-of-rome, who wanted purple shirt-and-red pant-hijinks.
> 
> This should make sense without reading the first two stories in the series.

John shakes his head, steps out of the shower, and dries off, rubbing his hair and skin vigorously. He leans over to hang the damp towel on the rack, and as he does, he sees a pile of clothes heaped behind the laundry basket. Sighing, he reachesdown to pick it up and toss the clothes into the basket where they belong, but as he does, he sees a pair of red pants and stops, still.

 

It seems to him that the curve of Sherlock’s impossibly lush arse is still visible in the fabric. He reaches out for them: they’re obscenely soft, the knit is impossibly fine, the seams are nearly invisible. As they slip through his hands, he’s tempted, so tempted, to put them on.

 

He’s naked. The door is closed.

 

He steps into them.

 

The pants fit, of course, hugging his body in a way that makes him hard. He thinks about how they’ve been on Sherlock, too, and slumps against the sink a bit, the cool porcelain against his thighs a stark contrast to the heat pooling in his groin.

 

Then the door flies open. Sherlock pokes his head in.

“John, d’you really want that mouldy jar of jam…” Sherlock trails off, clocks what’s happening, stares.

 

“Interesting.”

 

“Go away, Sherlock.” John feels the blood rush up into his face.

 

“I’m not sure I want to.” Sherlock opens the door and leans against the wall, assessing. He’s fully dressed, the bastard, in tight trousers and that obscenely sexy purple shirt. John licks his lips.

 

“You want to. We have discussed the concept of personal space.”

 

“Hasn’t our concept of personal space changed a little recently?” Sherlock pushes off from the wall and steps towards John.

 

“Yeah, it.. um.. it has, but, um..” John watches Sherlock put his hands on his hips, mesmerized by the flex of Sherlock’s lean muscles under the shirt. The buttons are criminally strained, and the blood that was in his face is quickly rushing back down.

 

“You want me to come closer.” Sherlock’s voice drops.

 

John pulls his gaze away from Sherlock’s chest and looks into his eyes.

 

“See?” Another step, and now John feels the warmth of Sherlock’s body and can smell cologne and crisp cloth.

 

“Sherlock, I just got out of the shower.”

 

“So that explains why you’re not wearing a jumper.”

 

“Ha bloody ha.”

 

“You’re wearing my pants, though. Why?”

 

“You can’t deduce that?”

 

“Maybe I want to hear you say it.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

Sherlock stops and stares appraisingly at John.

 

“Not so easy, is it?” John sees that Sherlock is discomfited. He reaches out, closing the gap between them and places the flat of his hand on Sherlock’s chest. The rich fabric of Sherlock’s shirt is warm under his hand, and Sherlock’s breath is coming steady but fast, the rise and fall under John’s hand hypnotic. Sherlock stays still for a moment, eyes closed. He looks feline, catlike, soaking up John’s touch.

 

John’s hand drifts up to the vee of skin at the opening of the shirt and runs the pad of his thumb along Sherlock’s collarbones, first the left, and then the right, before settling his hand at the top button of the shirt.

 

“You okay, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock nods, vaguely.

 

“Tell me, because if you let me unbutton this one button, I don’t know where it’ll stop.”

 

The word “stop” seems to shake Sherlock from his semi-catatonic state. He opens his eyes and fixes John with a clear green stare.

 

“John. Don’t you dare.”

 

John removes his hand from the shirt, and cups Sherlock’s face, kisses him. It starts more gently than either of the times before, but as John presses his body against Sherlock’s, the silk of the shirt against John’s skin and the hot slickness of Sherlock’s mouth become overwhelming. John is seconds away from doing something embarrassing like moaning, or pushing his hard cock against Sherlock’s expensive trousers.

 

Sherlock reaches out and puts his large warm hands on John’s waist.

 

“Oh,” John straightens, flushed and panting, grateful for a moment’s pause, “Are you joining in now too?”

 

Sherlock just smiles against his lips and slides his hands down around to cup John’s arse, pulling their bodies snugly together. John almost squeaks as he feels Sherlock’s erection against his belly, but he manages to hold it together, channeling that wave of desire to deepen their kiss, running his hands up under the shirt and caressing Sherlock’s back. They begin to rock together, their breathing harsher now, both of them lost in the slide and pressure and the heat of bodies.

 

Then, Sherlock breaks the kiss and leans forward, head against John’s neck, eyes open and unfocused. Their rhythm stutters. John takes control, then; propelling Sherlock against the wall, he swiftly unbuttons the shirt, exposing a long swath of creamy muscle. Then, he pops Sherlock’s trouser button, reaches around his waist, shoves the trousers down. Sherlock is wearing white pants that are currently strained to indecent proportions, and John leans in, fitting his body to Sherlock’s again. He trails his tongue up to Sherlock’s neck and bites; Sherlock arches into him and they re-establish a rhythm of slow, rolling thrusts.

 

John is making noise now, as the pleasure builds: low, inarticulate groans against Sherlock’s flushed skin. Sherlock is silent, intent; his hands grip John’s hips as if they are the only fixed point in the universe. They come nearly together, arching into each other, and John collapses into Sherlock, boneless.

 

It’s a long moment before Sherlock carefully slides to the floor with John in his arms. John bends his knees obediently, mind fuzzy and stomach sticky.

 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is an impossibly low rumble.

 

“Mmm?”

 

“You can have those pants.”

 


End file.
